


Kindred

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Colours!, Identity, Life in Technicolor, Multi, Soulmates, is my jam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: Once, hidden in the dark and uncharacteristically intimate for both of them, Raphael had mimicked Simon’s movement in bed, inch by inch, like a game. Simon burst out laughing, pulling an outlandish face, and gripped Raphael’s chin. Raphael reached out and pinched his chin in return. They lifted each other’s faces, moving it left and right, leaned in and pressed their foreheads together. They let go and traced a finger slowly from their collarbone to their belly button.Like a challenge, they held each other’s eyes, all traces of humor gone. For a little while, Simon and Raphael felt as if they were mirrors of some kind. Opposite, but the same.Soon after, though Simon hadn’t made the connection, the first flicker of blue had appeared. a.k.a. Soulmate AU where you slowly start seeing color. Let the angst begin!





	1. Blue and Green

 

Simon thought about it very rarely, soulmates.

 

It didn’t particularly interest him.

 

Besides, he had other things to worry about, like his newbie vampire identity, or his radio silence that worried his mother, or his frail relationship with the Shadowhunters, most of who seemed to dislike him. A lot. Most of who were sitting around the table at the Institute right now and ignored him, plain as day. Except for Izzy and Clary. Bless Clary and her warm heart. And screw Alec.

 

Instead of listening to the others speak, which was after all what he was supposed to be doing, he pursed his lips and frowned down at his hands.

 

Oddly enough, despite the fact that his blood flow was minimal – only the blood he drank, really – , the veins on his hands stood out, just like they used to on a warm summer’s day. There was still no pulse. He checked twice, stupidly, holding the tip of his finger against the inside of his wrist.

 

But, back to the point: soulmates.

 

It was hardly surprising other people _did_ think about it. A lot. Like any enigmatic phenomenon, the subject of soulmates was obsessively studied by doctors, both the well respected and the mad scientist variety, and by dusty professors with unmanageable theories, or by aspiring authors hoping to hop on the best-seller train for sappy romances. Unfortunately, most of the ‘knowledge’ out there was bogus. Not To Be Trusted™.

 

Amongst the sea of speculation, though, a few things were agreed upon. Simon wasn’t so sure about any of it, and he liked to pretend he knew nothing about it.

 

Meeting your soulmate – and effectively being able to see colour for the first time in your life – wasn’t _bam_ and hey, all of a sudden your world’s Technicolor!

 

It wasn’t triggered by a small touch or a nanosecond of eye contact and _oh_ , so that’s what blue looks like, huh? No, that would just be too easy. There were a dozen of factors that could impede you from ever meeting your soulmate –which, frankly, didn’t make a lot of sense. If there was such a thing as fate, why did it have to be a mysterious asshole about it? Who benefitted from that?

 

Simon scrawled _F A T E ??_ on the notepad in front of him and circled it three times. Opposite him sat a bitter-faced Alec, looking high-and-mighty. Simon quickly crossed out the scribble and tried to cover up the doodles in the margins, and then turned back to Izzy, who was leading the meeting with put-upon professionalism. She was still trying her very hardest to win Maryse over.

 

He peered around the room, as if scared Shadowhunter expertise also included mindreading, but saw that the meeting was nowhere near done and no one seemed to pay much attention to him. Alec had returned to frowning at the glass table. Clary was nodding at Izzy and resembled a bobblehead. Izzy was standing in front of a fancy clear-glass whiteboard, drawing out the details of –shit. Simon really didn’t know. A plan? Blueprint? She smiled at him briefly and turned back to the board. He nodded belatedly.

 

Anyway, there was a long list of reasons why Simon thought it was beyond unlikely he would ever meet his fated other, his soulmate, his heart’s desire, whatever the term was supposed to be. A kindred spirit?

 

He mentally summed up why it was impossible – impossible, goddamnit – for him to be seeing what he could only assume was Clary’s _green_ shirt. At least, he thought it was green, which made him wonder why on earth people who lived in black and white would pay for dyed cloth. Oh, god, she probably thought he was staring at her breasts like a schoolboy or a pervert.

 

Reason number one, his heart was technically dead. Well, he died. That was ages ago. He wasn’t really sure if dead bodies were biologically capable of the reaction catalysed by meeting that one person. Then again, he argued, he was far from a zombie. Still experienced frustration, boredom, anger, longing and all that stuff. Okay, so his first reason was shit. _Strike it from the mental record_.

 

Secondly, not everyone carried the identifying gene around. And what a sad truth that was. A lot of folks tended to despise the lucky few who kept gushing about _that gorgeous red dress,_ or, _look at how blue the sky is today, it’s damn near electric!_ Most people spent their entire lives living in black and white.

 

Now this was a solid, good reason. Especially since he’d gotten tested for the gene when he was about thirteen years old, and the results came back decidedly negative. Zero chance. Indisputable.

 

What he hadn’t realized was that his DNA pool got sloshed around with the vampire venom. Rearranged, restructured, and he was unknowingly susceptible to being triggered by his soulmate.

 

Third reason, and a very valid one if you asked Simon, he wasn’t really convinced of the idea of there being _one_ person who was going to —what, complete you? Maybe he wanted multiple people. Maybe he was already complete on his own.

 

And last but certainly not least, there was the fact that there were no blaring sirens screeching in your ears at the moment you actually _did_ meet them. It could take up to weeks, even months – god forbid, _years_ – for the colour to start seeping in.

 

And as if fate wasn’t enough of a bitch to make it near impossible to have any certainty, the colours didn’t even manifest themselves all at once. First came blues and greens, murky browns a few days later, then yellow and purple weeks or months later, and finally, red. Fiery, bold, burning red.

 

Simon had often read fresh blood was a vibrant scarlet colour that grew bland and boring and brown with time. As a vampire, Simon could admit he was strangely eager to see it.

 

But again, the chances of meeting _the_ person, were slim. The simple fact was that a lot of people – mundanes, downworlders, shadowhunters, whoever –walked straight past their soulmates without realizing they’d missed something potentially life-changing. Unless they pursued that tiny, little flicker of interest – and most people were too cowardly, or too distracted, or too stressed to do it –, your chances were shot to shit.

 

Too damn bad. Fate didn’t come knocking twice.

 

Unless you were Simon Lewis, apparently.

 

It knocked once when that impulsive, arrogant vampire kidnapped him and derailed his entire plan of existence.

 

It knocked twice when Camille murdered him.

 

It knocked a third time when Simon clawed his way through a wooden casket and crawled through layers of dirt, only to be greeted by Raphael himself, this time less wholly arrogant as he shuffled on the grass and clenched his jaws, clearly shocked and remorseful at what he had set into motion.

 

And fate kept knocking, because, completely against his wishes, Raphael had apparently promised to look after him.

 

“—Simon, for god’s sake!” Clary yelled.

 

Simon nearly threw himself off his chair. “What? What?”

 

“Are you even listening?” Her shirt was still green. And upon closer inspection, so were her eyes.

 

“Yeah! Yes, totally! I’m taking notes!” He looked down at the notepad and tore of the sheaf op paper covered the doodles in the margins, turned it around and put his pen down. “Note-taking, it’s happening. You were talking about the, eh, nest of ehm—,”

 

“Why is he even here?” Alec cut in.

 

“Excuse me, I am the First Advisor to the Interim Chapter President of the New York Vampire Clan …” Simon objected. He trailed off lamely, realizing how moronic the title really sounded.

 

“Si—,”

 

“That was for real?” Jace asked.

 

Simon shot him a dirty look. “Yes. Anyways, I was going to say nest of demons down in that shabby depot. Raphael’s already gotten complaints about it.” He looked over to Alec.

 

Goddamnit. Alec’s eyes were blue.

 

This was not a fluke.

 

Simon was feeling increasingly antsy, and he pushed away the fake need to take a deep, calming breath.

 

“Right,” Isabelle said. “Well, keep him updated. If the looting continues, we’ll have to intervene.”

 

Simon looked down at his yellow notes and wondered, _crap, what updates? what looting?_ In the last ten minutes of the meeting, he frantically scribbled down what was written on the board.

 

He felt Alec judging him from afar.

 

\--

 

After saying goodbye to Clary, Simon walked back to Dumort.

 

It was still early to vampire standards, barely one a.m.

 

Simon wracked his brain. Had that doctor been a crook? Were his test results wrong?

 

He was briefly distracted by a bright green neon cross buzzing at the end of the street, and stood staring in the middle of the pathway until someone knocked into him while grumbling angrily.

 

Could it be Izzy? They’d gotten close. Somewhat. Or Clary?

 

He ignored the third option – the option that gave him a half-hearted greeting when he entered the living room in Dumort. The option he wasn’t remotely ready for.

 

“Ah, you’re back.” Raphael was alone. He got up. “Any news?”

 

Simon shrugged his shoulders and took out the bundle of papers, handing it to Raphael.

 

“Your drawing skills could use some improvement.”

 

“Eh…”

 

“If you’re going to spend all your time at the Institute trying to be the next Sparky, I’m going to have to strip you from your title.”

 

Simon sighed and plopped down on the couch. “I love _Peanuts_.”

 

“Not the point whatsoever, Lewis.”

 

“Right, sorry. I got a little distracted.”

 

“I bet,” Raphael replied in a clipped tone.

 

A painting hanging in the back of the room caught Simon’s eye. It depicted a small group of ballet dancers. A tutu stood out against the greys and whites. He got out of the couch as fast as he sat down on it and moved to stand in front of the dancers.

 

A blue tutu.

 

“Not my favourite,” Raphael commented, walking over. “I think it belonged to one of the old vampires, before I got here.”

 

Simon hmm-ed. “Right.”

 

“What’s up with you? Hit by a sudden urge to take in late eighteen hundreds French impressionism?”

 

Raphael crossed his arms. His cufflink had a blue-ish glint to it. His eyes were still dark as coal. Simon knew they’d be brown.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Degas.”

 

“What?”

 

“The painter. Degas.”

 

“Oh, nope. Just curious about the –eh, dancers. My sister used to dance. I prefer comics, anyways.” He grinned and went to shove his glasses further up his nose, forgetting he didn't wear any these days.

 

“Who could ever forget? You never stop talking.”

 

“Hey!”

 

It wasn’t undoable, to put the whole soulmate situation aside for a little while, but he tried.

 

Raphael crowding against him and kissing his lips raw and slipping a hand down Simon’s pants didn’t make it a whole lot easier, though.

 

Of course tonight of all nights Raphael, who usually wasn’t all too interested in physical contact, who most certainly barely ever initiated it, didn’t seem to want to let go.

 

Once Raphael was done torturing him, Simon sank down to the ground, defiled and slightly pink. He looked around for a hand to hold, but Raphael had already left.


	2. Yellow

One little issue Simon hadn’t really considered in this whole mess: Clary.

 

Clary, who didn’t know her best friend had sort of entered a casual relationship with his casual clan leader in his new casual home, none of which would turn out to be very casual, after all.

 

So, picture this:

 

During the summer, about half a year after Simon Turned, out of nowhere came this strange little attraction growing between two people who didn’t seem to like each other too much.

 

This little attraction slipped into Dangerous And Steer Clear Of Further Participation territory when Raphael triumphantly held Simon down for the umpteenth time during one of their training sessions, summer heat sweat running down their necks and backs while Raphael grinned openly. It made Simon’s insides squirm and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

 

It escalated even further when Simon came home one night, spurred on by a little booze-laced-blood and a stomach cramped from laughing so hard with his best friend, and he barged into Raphael’s bedroom and demanded to be kissed. It was all very awkward. Especially because Raphael refused.

 

It was unsettling when they sat downstairs in the dining area with the rest of the clan, and Simon could feel Raphael’s eyes on him the entire night, and he disregarded Lily’s leering and Stan’s hooting.

 

It was irreparable when Simon woke up morning after morning in Raphael’s bed, sore and sated, and feeling strangely safe. And then Raphael croaked out a bleary, “ _Buenos días_ ,” sans insults or condescension. Was it possible to feel out of place yet belonging at the same time? Simon concluded that, yes, apparently it was.

 

But, as he’s mentioned previously, there was a slight hitch to this development: Clary – and none of the other shadowhunters for that matter – knew about his little trysts.

 

Most of them wouldn’t care, obviously, but Simon was reluctant to tell Clary about it. She hated Raphael. In her words, ‘He’s smug and arrogant, and has threatened to kill you at least five times in the past three months! And that was only when I was around!’

 

And there was Izzy, who he’d been flirting shamelessly with from the moment they’d met. Innocent fun, until it wasn’t. A month ago, she’d kissed him, and he’d let her.

 

He’d been too stunned to truly react.

 

 

\--

 

 

The sun is gold. That’s what the poems said, right, the songs?

 

Now, Simon couldn’t actually stand in the sunlight without sizzling and burning to a crisp, but he was able to stand in the shade and enjoy the light and life of daytime in early morning and late evenings when the sun weakened.

 

For a few precious moments he could stand quietly and dream of a life he’d never even had the chance to fully enjoy. No sunny beaches, no lazy afternoons lying in the sun in the veranda at home. No clear winter sky with glittering snow.

 

He felt a little cheated, to be honest.

 

Apparently he would be able to see all the colours of the rainbow soon, but never in daylight. The endless, multi-coloured possibilities slimmed down considerably. Nighttime turned everything grey and dark.

 

Nearing sundown, while he leaned against the wall of a darkened alleyway near the waterfront overlooking the sinking sun, he finally understood why the sun was gold. A vibrant, deep yellow. In black and white, the light of the sun could be felt just as much. You would squint your eyes against the white glare, but you never saw the gold.

 

He came back that evening to Dumort, excited and giddy, and desperate to tell someone about the miracle he’d just witnessed. He was almost about to do it, he really was. He was about to make a decision, he would—

 

“Raphael!” Simon shouted with a broad smile from the entryway to Dumort. “Yo, where are you?”

 

Very quietly from behind him, came, “Lewis.”

 

Simon startled and swivelled around. “—oh, my G- you scared the bejeesus out of me!”

 

“Simon, you’ve got company. And don’t say _yo_ , you sound crass.”

 

The smile dropped from his face.

 

Now that he looked closely, he could see Raphael was in a foul mood: eyes focused somewhere over Simon’s shoulder, but resolutely not on his face. A small frown creasing his forehead. A tick to his jaw. He said nothing more and abruptly marched up the stairs, gripping the banister tightly.

 

“Hey, hold on-,” Simon tried but was interrupted by Clary and Izzy opening the door to his left.

 

Clary walked straight over with a bright smile and hugged him. Izzy leaned in for a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Hey guys, what’s up?” Simon looked back up to where Raphael had disappeared and felt dread pooling in his stomach. He was fucking up so badly.

 

“Well,” Izzy said brightly, looking him up and down, “we thought we’d go out for drinks. Relax a little. Everything is so tense back at the institute, so I convinced Clary to embrace our youth.”

 

Simon snorted and pushed his worries away. “You know, this is actually weird. I got up like an hour ago, and I’m already out to party. I swear I wasn’t this adventurous in college. This new day-night rhythm is ridiculous!” Simon re-zipped him jacket and together they walked back out the hotel.

 

Clary smiled. “You’re young, you’ll survive, Si!”

 

“Young forever,” Izzy corrected. She flung her hair over her shoulders and adjusted her skin-tight dress. Simon had to admit, Izzy dressed to impress, and impress she did.

 

All throughout the evening, men and women’s heads followed wherever Izzy went. They stared – salivated, almost – at her, and she soaked it up, high on the attention. Simon was unwilling to admit he was one of them. She was gorgeous.

 

Some day he’d be able to see what colour the dress was. He guessed red.

 

Near the end of the evening, when all three of them had drank a bit too much, Izzy kissed him again. Clary’s face scrunched up as if she’d bitten down on a sour lemon. She excused herself and headed for the bathrooms at the back of the bar.

 

Simon didn’t notice, too preoccupied with the tongue down his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice returned and demanded attention, cursed at Simon for being this monumentally stupid.

 

 

\--

 

 

Clary and Izzy returned to the Institute, both of them testy and tired, and Simon stayed up watching the sunrise, regretting the entire evening. It was a completely different light, a different colour.

 

He slipped quietly into Dumort, dumped his jacket in the foyer and downed a glass of blood with grim determination. He’d need it. The headache was already starting.

 

The kitchen was pristine. Cold. Simon leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the ice cooler. ‘Damn it, damn it, damn it, Simon. Get it together,’ he mumbled to himself.

 

Upstairs, the halls were empty and solemn. Sometimes Simon forgot he actually lived with vampires. Half-dead people. Half-dead people who didn’t make any noise.

 

At the far end of the corridor, he turned left and stopped in front of Raphael’s door, wondering how much of an ass he was for wanting to go in. Conclusion: a very big one.

 

He didn’t knock, but turned the door handle as quietly and quickly as possible. Refusing to think about it, he undressed, wobbly on his drunken legs, and sank into the sheets.

 

He attempted, foolishly, to put a hand on Raphael’s waist, but got smacked in return.

 

Suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of aggressive regret, Simon pressed his face into the cushion, forcing himself to not make the situation any worse. Now was not the time. He told himself, _we’ve never agreed on anything, we never promised each other anything, he’s never asked, he’s never asked, he’s never asked._

What a fool.

 

But unlike him, Raphael wasn’t blind. And he certainly wasn’t stupid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy!
> 
> Today's chapter: How to Mess Up Royally, by yours truly.


	3. Purple

One very, very large issue he had continually refused to consider in this whole mess: Izzy.

 

Hungover, nauseous, and devastatingly alone, Simon sat at the kitchen table eyeing a tall glass of warm blood. Hit by another wave of nausea, he clamped his hand over his mouth and ran to the bin, hovering in case he’d puke. _Nope, nope_.

 

Izzy.

 

Simon pinched his cheeks, testing to see if he was really awake. If he was really awake, it meant that he hadn’t imagined her full lips against his, rough and demanding, it meant he really was the most colossal tool in the state of New York.

 

What was he doing? What kind of self-destructive idiocy was he partaking in?

 

His stomach churned and he sank down to his knees, gripping the bin and groaning. ‘Fuck me.’

 

‘I respectfully decline, but thank you for the _oh_ so enticing offer,’ Raphael said from the doorway. ‘You smell like a brewery. And stink as if you haven’t showered in a week.’

 

‘Correct to the first one,’ Simon conceded, lifting himself up from the floor. ‘And I showered yesterday. Or the day before. Probably.’ He waited warily for a reaction.

 

‘You reek.’

 

Raphael walked over to the fridge and took out a blood bag, sucking gingerly and refusing to look anywhere near Simon. ‘Had a good time last night?’

 

Simon winced. ‘Raphael.’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Come on.’

 

‘ _Come on?_ No, I don’t think so.’ The blood bag was empty and he tossed it carelessly in the sink. ‘How is our dear shadowhunter Isabel faring? Or was it Clary this time?’

 

‘Oh, my god.’ Simon had never felt this horribly. He was teetering on the edge, certain he was about to burst and attempt some desperate, needy act of forgiveness. But he barely knew what to say, or how to apologize for what he was doing. ‘Please, Raph, I’m so sorry, I don’t— Clary’s not even—,’

 

‘What a relief, I suppose, that you’re only cheating on me with _one_ girl instead of two,’ Raphael bit out viciously. He schooled his features into a mask of apathy but regarded him expectantly, adjusting the buttons on his vest, which Simon noted was faintly purple.

 

The urge to vomit returned.

 

The kitchen door swung open and Lily stomped in, throwing Simon a glare of pure hatred. ‘You’re needed at the Institute, baby. Meeting in a half hour.’

 

‘But it’s still light out!’ Simon protested.

 

‘Use the sewers,’ she proposed innocently. ‘I’m sure you’ll find your way.’

 

Raphael huffed and gave him a smarmy smile. He gestured at the door. ‘Do make sure to take clear notes this time, _baby_. And say hello to Isabel for me. Or Miss Fray.’

 

Lily harrumphed and shook her head. ‘Get out of here, Simon.’

 

Unsure of whether to cry, yell, or vomit, Simon took an unnecessary breath and muttered a lame ‘Sorry,’ before scurrying out of the kitchen.

 

 

 

\--

 

 

The Institute was abuzz with energy, and the shadowhunters zigzagged all over the place in a flurry.

 

Simon, however, still felt like as if he was about to combust at any moment, yet also suspected he could fall asleep if given the opportunity. Last night was a mistake. He hadn’t seen Raphael this angered in a long while.

 

He stank of sewage and a few members of the Clave gave him a wide birth. He grumbled and strode over to Izzy’s quarters hoping to find Clary. Forgetting to knock in his distressed state, he barged in to find Izzy half dressed and bare-breasted, and spluttered out a quick apology, slapping his hands over his eyes.

 

‘Oh, my g—! Sorry. I should learn how to knock.’

 

She hesitated, but then laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not embarrassed.’ He heard material ruffling and buttons being closed. ‘I’m all dressed now, you can open your eyes.’

 

At that moment, Clary walked in. She seemed devastated and turned her wide, wet eyes at Simon. ‘Hi,’ she said.

 

‘Uhm… Hi. I was just looking for you.’

 

Her expression wobbled and she gave him a flighty smile. ‘Found me.’

 

Izzy took a deep breath, seemingly satisfied with herself. ‘Shall we? I think Alec and Jace are already there. We’re late.’

 

The meeting was horribly awkward.

 

Simon was still too hungover to act on whatever social niceties were expected of him, or to understand what the hell was up with his best friend. He never realized that he was being used to coax a reaction out of Clary.

 

Instead, he sat at the table, feeling dejected and drab. His notepad was full of scribbles and he couldn’t shake the pounding headache loose.

 

Izzy wore a pair of brilliant purple earrings. Gnawing on his thumb, Simon stared and stared, only to be hit lightly on the side of his head by Jace, who complained he never paid attention.

 

Jace hissed, ‘I don’t want _Vladimir_ barging in here accusing us of holding out information. Pay attention!’

 

‘Vladimir’s from Romania,’ Simon objected. ‘Raphael’s —,’

 

Jace threw him a look.

 

‘Never mind.’ Simon went back to his notes. ‘I’ll just shut up.’

 

 _Never mind, never mind_. Simon was tired. All the splotches of colour in the room made him feel helpless and restless. He _knew_. He just knew, no way was Izzy the one who’d triggered the whole thing.

 

He hated feeling like this. Usually he was jovial. A happy-go-lucky dude who made everyone smile.

 

Without a word of explanation, he got up only fifteen minutes after the meeting had started and left the room. He waved distractedly at Clary.

 

At Dumort, he threw his clothes on the floor of his cluttered bedroom, and stepped into the shower, scrubbing every inch of his body clean.

 

Once out of the shower, he stood in front of the mirror, staring back at whoever he was supposed to be. The mirror turned foggy and he disappeared.

 

His skin was pale and alien to him. He slapped his arm with a loud _thwack_ , curious to feel that this really was his body.

 

While grabbing a towel, he slipped on the wet tiles. He slipped and banged his chin on the ceramic sink. He slipped again and landed on his tailbone, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through his body.

 

“FUCK!” he yelled out. “ _God_ _— damn_ — _it_.” Blood gushed from the wound on his chin and he gripped his jaws carefully, trying to ease the throbbing sensation. Had his teeth broken?

 

“Oh, my god,” he moaned, carefully lying down on the floor, shuffling slightly so that his aching behind lay on the soft mat. He turned his head sideways. Idly, he noted the mat was a light green colour, now stained with his blood, an ugly, dark splotch. “Ugh. What a mess. What am I doing?”

 

That’s how Raphael found him. Naked and pathetic, mumbling to himself.

 

“Please go away,” Simon complained.

 

Raphael cursed. “You really are a child, Lewis.”

 

“What? How is it _my_ fault I slipped on the slippery, wet floor?” He gestured around him, accusing the tiles.

 

“Get up.”

 

“No.”

 

“Get up, Simon. Come on.”

 

“ _Come on? No I don’t think so,_ ” Simon mimicked from earlier that day. He let out a small _uff_ as he attempted to sit up.

 

Raphael threw a towel at him, which Simon quickly accepted to cover himself up. Despite having seen each other naked dozens of times, more, Simon felt bare and uncomfortable. Raphael could get a bit blunt sometimes.

 

“Hold your chin up, baby.”

 

Simon winced. The wet cloth dabbed at his skin, digging into the wound slightly. “Ow. Stop.” He took the cloth away, pushing Raphael’s arm down. “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

 

Raphael sighed. “Fine.”

 

They sat in silence for a while.

 

Simon hesitated briefly, but asked, “Why are you here?”

 

Raphael raised his eyebrows and tilted his head sideways. “What an excellent question. Why are _you_?”

 

He couldn’t answer that. He held the cloth under his chin again, cool and wet. He sucked the blood off his thumb before it could get crusty.

 

“They killed a bunch of humans last night,” Simon said abruptly.

 

“What?”

 

“The nest. Of vampires. Down at the depot. You know, the one the Clave was worried about? They asked me to ask you to take care of it soon. Or they’ll have to. They’re insistent. We’ve been avoiding our duties, apparently.”

 

“Oh,” Raphael said, disappointed with the turn of the conversation. “Right.” He got up and opened the door to leave.

 

It tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Wait! Before you go — can I — could I sleep with you tonight?” Hypocritical fool!

 

“You’re unbelievable. Sleep with me or _sleep_ with me?” He laughed. “Make _love_ to me, or screw me? Or perhaps just screw me over? Which one will it be this time, Simon?”

 

“But we never agreed on anything!” he replied, nearly begging. “You never asked anything of me! How am I supposed to know what you want?”

 

Raphael let out a shout of frustration. “You’re _excused_ for not knowing, but this? This is … I never asked you for a definitive commitment, but you’re not even trying to be honest.”

 

“So?” Simon yelled. “You aren’t either! You never told me you weren’t okay with me seeing other people! You never say anything! You don’t complain, you don’t get angry! You just get bitter and distant, and b-bitchy.”

 

Raphael widened his eyes. “ _Chingate_. So what we’re doing is entirely _my_ responsibility? Because I’m older? Because I’m your clan leader? There are two of us.”

 

“I — it’s not. But it isn’t completely mine either.” He was trying to dig himself out of the hole, but it wasn’t really working. Simon put the cloth back to his chin. It’d started bleeding again while he was shouting.

 

“Great. So it’s neither of our responsibility. That’s just splendid,” Raphael spat. “And in case it was not clear to you, no, you can’t sleep with me tonight. Or the next, for that matter.”

 

Before leaving, he said, “By the way, I’ll be gone for a few days. Back in a week or less.”

 

“Oh.” Simon sobbed and cleared his throat. “Where are y—,”

 

“None of your business. Tell the Clave the problem will be resolved soon.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Anticlimactically, the vampire nest got rid of without any problems, as he heard from Clary a few days later. Simon had never felt more useless in his entire life. He dumped his Sparky doodles in the trash and was tempted to light it up, just to watch _something_ burn.

 

Raphael didn’t return.

 

\--

 

Once, hidden in the dark and uncharacteristically intimate for both of them, Raphael had mimicked Simon’s movement in bed, inch by inch, like a game. Simon burst out laughing, pulling an outlandish face, and gripped Raphael’s chin. Raphael reached out and pinched his chin in return.

 

They lifted each other’s faces, moving it left and right, leaned in and pressed their foreheads together. Nose, lip, cheek, chin.

 

They let go and traced a finger slowly from each other’s collarbone to the belly button, spread out their hand against their stomach. Simon moved his left hand and snatched Raphael’s wrist, grinning broadly. They held their hands clasped tightly, digging into the mattress, and continued the shadow game.

 

Then, instead of touching each other, they used their hands to follow a line all the way from their own crossed legs to their own groin, starting at the big toe and ending up in curly, coarse hair, then moving up and down.

 

Like a challenge, they held each other’s eyes, all traces of humour gone. Simon being Simon, however, eventually broke out in laughter and leaned in to kiss Raphael.

 

For a little while, Simon and Raphael felt they were mirrors of some kind. Opposite, but the same.

 

Soon after, though Simon never made the connection, the first flicker of blue had appeared.

 

 

\--

 

 

The fifth night after Raphael had left, Simon was thinking about soulmates again.

 

He was slowly starting to feel it, really feel it, that sense of fated doom curling around his ribcage each time Raphael entered the room. A feeling that urged him to propel himself forward and grab on, to spill every inane detail about his uneventful days, to conjure that smarmy grin Raphael was prone to. But it was a doomed feeling, because he was damning himself by prolonging this dance they danced around each other without ever actually latching on, and he couldn’t understand why.

 

What was the point of having an imposed, indecipherable drive to devote and give yourself to someone completely, if you weren’t sure you wanted it? The urge felt alien and parasitical, as if it crawled into Simon’s body in the dark without him noticing.

 

Was Fate just a giant cosmic test? Were you only granted some sense of assuredness over your soulmate if you persevered long enough? But then what was the point? Why even bother?

 

What if Camille had never killed him? Would he have ever even considered Raphael?

 

Simon was slowly starting to feel ill. He cleared his throat about sixty times a day, hoping to get rid of the discomfort lodged inside. He started scratching his arms incessantly and rubbing at his itching stubble. A layer of grime got stuck underneath his nails everyday, and every night he cleaned them obsessively.

 

Moments right before going to bed were the worst. Ever since he was young, he showered right before sleep, which meant he inevitably passed by the mirror and was now confronted by an image he didn’t recognize.

 

 _I need my glasses_ he thought distractedly. _I need to be whoever I was before. Come on! Speak to Izzy. Tell Clary. Get a grip._ He gripped the sink so forcefully it cracked. ‘Shit. Don’t get a grip.’

 


	4. Intermezzo

_Raphael_

 

Sometime after deciding to steer clear of Dumort and temporarily handing over the reigns to Lily, Raphael found himself sitting on an empty bench in Amsterdam, overlooking bluish dark canal water. Dirty moss was wedged between the paving stones beneath his feet. He scraped some off his shoe.

 

He’d travelled to Haarlem and Utrecht the days before, and now he was back in the capital. He’d hopped on the first flight out of New York taking him as far as possible, which was London, and then decided to take a connecting flight to the Netherlands, to reacquaint himself with old friends.

 

It was wildly different from New York, emptier and quieter, smaller and cosier, but just as commercial and touristy. There were canals everywhere, and cropped little terraced houses with old steps. No skyscrapers, no enormous boulevards, yet there was the frenzy of the endless stream of cyclists and shoppers.

 

A drunk woman twirling her bag around her wrist in slow circles passed by him and hollered, ‘Goeieavond, _monsieur_! Drankje drinken?’ Raphael shook his head politely and she stumbled to her bike, unlocking it awkwardly. She teetered on the edge of the water and grumbled at the lock, ‘Verrot, werk toch eens mee! Komaan.’

 

Raphael darted forward as she swung dangerously and he offered to unlock the bike, telling her she probably shouldn’t cycle home, but walk. She regarded him seriously and nodded, ‘Ja, yes, yes, it is, eh, a goed plan.’ She went on her way, pushing the bike down the street.

 

One of the upsides to living a long, long, life, was that Raphael had a network of relations spanning all over the world, including here. However, he wasn’t meeting up with his friend, a kind but featherbrained vampire named Diederik he’d met in the late 80s.

 

Instead, he sat on that lone bench at five thirty in the morning, trying to put all the facts in a row to reach some clarity in the mess that his life had become every since that first mistake of kidnapping Simon.

 

Deep down, Raphael knew he was far from innocent himself. In fact, he’d started this whole ordeal. To make it worse, Raphael was guilty of dodging an extremely important charge: whenever he spoke to Simon, he rarely offered support or comfort, even though it was devastatingly obvious Simon was lugging his way through a difficult time.

 

In eighty-three years of life with constant ups and downs, Raphael had become rather astute to other people’s behaviour, and Simon was no exception.

 

In Simon’s infidelity and careless behaviour, Raphael saw he was struggling with the insecurity and unexpectedness of the bond, and the underlying confusion of being changed into a vampire.

 

Everyone tended to underestimate it, the adjustments that came with dying and suddenly changing into a nocturnal creature. You entered a completely different societal structure with odd hierarchies that had completely disappeared in modern times, extreme loyalty and obedience to someone whom you hadn’t chosen. There was both an instinctual need to please your clan, and a lingering rebellious urge to defy it, to cling to your old life.

 

The safety net of a clan was not always enough. Especially for someone as stubborn as Simon, who maintained he didn’t _belong_ with vampires, who insisted on rattling the system by staying befriended to Clary and the others.

 

Raphael wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t stupid.

 

He knew all of this, rationally, he knew it.

 

Then why was he incapable of offering a helping hand?

 

Soon after, the sun started rising. It reflected on the roofs and turned the air a dull greyish yellow.

 

The first time he saw a hint of blue, ink flowing out of an old fountain pen, had been about seven months ago. The pen clattered on the table and Raphael spent the next few minutes smiling to himself in the privacy of his office. He knew even then. The other colours came in astoundingly quick succession. In a time span of a less than a month, the only colour that remained missing was red.

 

He saw a potted green cactus at Taki’s Diner. The first flickers of yellow became visible on an atrocious shirt of Stan’s. Brown was the colour of Simon’s discarded glasses that he kept safely tucked in a drawer of his own bedroom. Purplish blue was the colour of a half-formed hickey he’d sucked on Simon’ neck months ago, trying and testing to see what level of colours he was at. Red hadn’t made it yet.

 

Raphael knew without a doubt who was responsible for the sudden colours appearing, and despite his history of complete disinterest in both sexes, he was somehow left with the realization that, unbelievably, he didn’t mind. It was a shock at first, without a doubt, but that abated with time. The shock and discomfort quickly disappeared. One of Raphael’s rules of this undead life, a surprisingly early and wise insight for a young vampire, was the necessity to take it all in stride, to accept whatever changes life may demand of you. That little rule, however preachy as it may have sounded, had gotten him to where he was now: a leader to one of the most well-known clans in the country.

 

The rule worked. Mostly. Unfortunately, Simon was a little trickier than a self-imposed mantra of accepting change without resistance.

 

The sun was getting brighter, reflecting on the houses, and Raphael retreated into the shadows. He didn’t want to see it.

 

If Fate were a person, she’d be heavily disappointed right now, and probably regretting her decision.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

_Izzy_

 

Izzy assessed herself in front of the mirror, adjusting a stubborn strand of hair that kept bouncing back in front of her eyes, then continued perfecting every little imperfection until her mind cleared and every thought was drowned out by the task at hand.

 

Was she disappointed by her lack of morals, or ultimately proud of her cunning nature?

 

Either way, Isabelle was a force of nature, a wilful woman, and would always get where and what she wanted.

 

She refused to admit maybe this time she hadn’t handled things so well.

 

 

 

 —

 

 

 

_Clary_

 

‘Si! Over here,’ Clary called.

 

The days were growing darker and shorter, dawn breaking only at eight thirty, light already fading a little before five.

 

That was why Simon sat with her in a little semi-deserted café at five thirty, a ‘human hour’, and he appeared very mollified by this, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Clary rubbed over the silver ring on her finger and smiled pleasantly. It had been a while since she’d seen a genuine smile on his face.

 

‘How’ve you been?’ she prompted after a five-minute monologue on the latest in movie he'd seen.

 

‘Oh. Uhm, yeah, I’ve been good. You?’

 

‘Fine. Good.’

 

He hesitated, fumbling with a stray toothpick. He shifted his body weight and nearly slipped on the greasy Formica table top, his elbows jolting and falling off the edge. ‘Did —have you spoken to Izzy lately?’

 

‘I speak to her all the time, Si. What do you mean?’

 

The waiter came by to refill Clary’s cup, but she shook her head and gave a polite smile.

 

‘Ah –eh, nothing, I guess,’ he hedged. ‘I met up with her a week ago,’ – Clary bristled, but tried not to show it, instead she averted her eyes and gripped her legs underneath the table – ‘and we decided –well, she told me –that whatever we were doing before, whatever that was, we’re not doing it anymore –I mean, we weren’t really doing anything, anyways? Either way, that’s over. I thought she’d speak to you?’

 

Clary felt relief flooding over her body, a weight being lifted in one fell swoop and she couldn’t help the little huff that escaped her mouth. She attempted to cover her mouth, coughed twice and then shook her head, ‘No, she hasn’t, actually.’

 

‘You know why, though, right?’

 

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe.’

 

‘Clary, look at me, please.’ Finally she lifted her eyes to his and found them to be sorrowful. Gone was the smile she’d missed. Even when she’d been reproachful and angry, she’d missed it.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I never realized.’

 

She nodded. What else was there to do?

 

The next few minutes were spent in silence, the only sound around them _clinks_ of cutlery and a soft, obnoxious Christmas jingle. A lady in the back sneezed loudly and coughed phlegm into a handkerchief.

 

Simon toyed with the Coca-Cola napkin box on the table, pushing in the wad of napkins and letting them bounce back, the shriek of the coils even painful to Clary’s ears.

 

‘Simon—,’

 

‘Coca-Cola’s red, right, the logo?’

 

‘Uhm… I think so, I’m not too sure. I think I’ve heard my mother say that. Why?’

 

‘It’s grey to me. There’s little purplish smudges right here,’ he traced the outer edges of a C, ‘but I can’t see the rest. I guess it’s red.’

 

She was dumbstruck ‘—what! Simon!’

 

‘Mh.’ He refused to look at her, instead stared shyly at the box.

 

‘It’s not– it’s not Izzy, is it?’ she asked, momentarily horrified and disappointed.

 

‘What? No! Of course not. Do you really think I’d be so chill with her ending, ehm, whatever it was that hadn’t even started? No, it’s not Izzy.’

 

She murmured, ‘thank god,’ until she saw his face crumple and quickly apologized. ‘Sorry. But, who, then? Do you know? Why didn’t you tell me? What color is my shirt?’

 

He grinned. ‘Yellow. It looks terrible with your green pants.’

 

‘Damn it! The lady swore they were blue! Thief.’

 

‘Yeah, that’s one upside to all this, I guess. A one hundred per cent guarantee on colour co-ordination. And I didn’t tell you, because I was freaking out! And we all have so much shit to deal with, and—,’

 

‘But this isn’t _shit_ ,’ she interrupted, grabbing his icy cold hands and squeezing them, ‘isn’t this good?’

 

He wrinkled his nose at that, and admitted, ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m— I don’t know what to do, Clary.’

 

‘I’ll help you figure it out,’ she promised. That was the deal between them, even if the past year their friendship had gone a bit wonky. They look out for one another. ‘I’ll always help you, you know that, right?’

 

He finally gripped her hands back. ‘Yeah. I know.’

 

Clary mulled over what Simon had just told her.

 

If it wasn’t Izzy, then who? Oh, god, Camille? That would explain why he was so miserable about it. It _couldn’t_ be Alec or Jace. Probably not Magnus or Lydia. Maybe Maia? Or Maureen? But then should’ve happened earlier, right, years ago? Who else was there at Dumort she knew, apart from Camille and Raphael? Lily. Stan. Eli. That mousy, pale, girl she didn’t know the name of. Maybe it was someone else, altogether, someone she’d never met.

 

Curious as she had been her entire life, unable to stop snooping and digging, she blurted out, ‘I can’t take it anymore! Who is it, Simon?’

 

He didn’t answer for a little while. He squared his jaw again and again, ripping another napkin apart and struggling to find the courage. Oh, god, who the hell could merit this kind of—

 

‘Raphael,’ he murmured quietly.

 

‘ _Raphael_?’

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

_Simon_

 

A very long time ago, Simon had woken up to the feeling of being weighed down by a ten tonne truck, as if a horse had trampled over him, crushing his windpipe and flattening his chest against gravelly ground.

 

He swung his arms wildly to relieve the pressure and gulped in air, shot up and sat on the mattress trembling and feeling feverish. Memories of childhood nightmares came flooding back; a little boy crying for his father; an abandoned boy lost in a shopping mall; a dark figure hiding behind the shadows of his home, coming to take him away.

 

Next to him, Raphael muttered angrily. Simon hadn’t registered the loud _bonk_ nor the shout of surprise and pain.

 

‘Qué diablos? Simon!’ Raphael stood up with a wince and rubbed his back. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He approached Simon, who jerked off the bed and lunged for the window, fumbling with the latch and opening it wide. The sky was dull with very faint evening light.

 

Gulping in more air, he leaned over the railing and gripped the bars so forcefully they groaned under the strain.

 

‘Simon! What is going on?’

 

Simon merely shook his head as he tried to calm his body down. ‘Can’t— breathe—.’

 

Raphael came to stand next to him and rubbed circles on Simon’s back as he heaved and shook. He said quietly, ‘You don’t need to, baby. There’s nothing to worry about.’ The sweet reassurance didn’t seem to matter, however, as nothing changed over the next few minutes. A feeling of helplessness and solitude came over Raphael, but he ignored it and repeated, ‘Simon. Simon, please, try to calm down.’

 

But Simon wouldn’t, because he couldn’t. He never forgot to stop breathing, because the instinct hadn’t dulled in this new body of his. Raphael was around sixty years removed from this experience, and couldn’t quite recall the instinct anymore.

 

Simon crumbled under the pull Raphael had on him, maybe even indulging in the rare touch of affection, but he never succeeded in forgetting about the dead weight crushing him, about the home he had left behind in a flurry without a chance at a proper goodbye.

 

The comfort of a rhythmic heartbeat was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zalig kerstfeest, engeltjes!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Goeieavond, monsieur! Drankje drinken? (Good evening, sir! Go for a drink?)
> 
> Verrot, werk toch eens mee! Komaan. (Dang, work with me here! Come on.)


	5. Red

 

There was something to be said about the addicting, heady, and bewildering effect of colour.

 

Now that Simon had lived with colours for a few weeks, he could hardly imagine the grey scale drabness from before. More so, he could never ever desire to have it back, regardless of whatever complications had come with it.

 

In everyday life, walking down the streets of the noisy city or sitting down in someone’s living room or kitchen, most of your surroundings were painted in varying shades of grey. Ashen or bright, dulled or vibrant. Colour was found in nature and on the skins of human beings. Simon never knew skin colour was brown and beige, melanin produced by melanocytes. Simon gawked at his own skin, at the green veins and brown moles, his dark eyes, and his grey lips, suspecting them to become red or pink. He stared at the sky, the muddy Hudson, the blinding sun, the sparse trees around the city, and the trampled grass in the parks. He stared.

 

In the real world other priorities took over, such as texture and taste. Never mind the hype of fluorescent frosting or the dignity and poise of a colour-coordinated setup on a dining room table. The softness of your bedspread was much more important than the hue of the cloth matching with the rest of your bedroom. Other expressions took precedence; there was no such thing as the serene blue of the wide expanse of an endless ocean, unsettling faded, pale green shadows in the dark, or an aggressive red and its intricate relation to passion, and who could understand the mellow yellow of a vast field full of flowers? Instead, light and shade and shape had to make up for it, like an epileptic flickering fit between white and black to express agitation or confusion, a misty grey to convey calm or secrecy, a twirling spiral for hypnotic numbness.

 

But never any colour. No complementary schemes of purple and yellow, red and green, blue and orange, no disturbing discordance of a striking but atrocious colour that didn’t fit with the rest of the palette, no visual shocks that went _beyond_. Colour psychology barely meant anything in this world. Apart from a few places.

 

So, Simon hunted them down.

 

He spent countless of hours obsessively dunking himself in the world of arts; cinema and its very limited offer of colour-based films – why invest in colour if more than half the audience wasn’t privy to it? –,obscure science fictions films from the 1930s with dancing ladies in yellow hats waving at the moon; then of course his comic-books, filled with deep tints of mauve, cerulean, cobalt, viridian; then he poured over art books cataloguing every shade of yellow and green, from khaki to lemon, from cream to glitter, from lime to pistachio to pine; he visited a fabric store and left with a headache; he put make-up on his face, and, horrified at the botched result, wiped it off again; he bought a disposable colour film and snapped a few pictures, eager to see them in print.

 

He watched and he made and he searched and he fooled around, and it was almost enough to fool himself!

 

 

\--

 

 

Blasted sleepless nights!

 

Out of the hundreds of days, _days_ , mind you, how many had Simon spent awake? Having already given up hope for this particular day to fall asleep, he lay awake in his poorly made bed, flopping around his limbs in frustration.

 

He’d once heard someone say that insomnia was the quickest way to eat away your sanity, and at the moment he wouldn’t dare contradict them.

 

It had been a glacial January night with subzero temperatures, minus twelve Celsius, and the cloudless sky only made it more unbearable. Simon froze his ass off outside, despite being a cold-blooded vampire. That just wasn’t fair.

 

The light was bright, though, one small spark of hope in the dark. It seemed stubborn, worming its way past the shingles and borders of the shutters, demanding to be let it, demanding to tempt Simon in coming outside. Three rays of light filtered in, specks of dust dancing in and out of the dark.

 

Simon sighed and threw the covers off, dumping them on the ground.

 

‘This is ridiculous,’ he said to himself. ‘And now I’m ridiculous. Stop speaking to y—,’

 

Another sigh.

 

All right, he reasoned, maybe I’m hungry.

 

Half asleep, he stumbled to the end of the corridor and descended the decrepit old wooden staircase hardly anyone used anymore. It was a quick detour to the kitchen.

 

Downstairs, he opened the freezer, tore open a pack of blood and drained it in one go.

 

All right, he reasoned, belly full. Now I’ll sleep. Now I’ll

 

Raphael.

 

It remained vaguely annoying, how the name would obtrusively weasel into his mind again and again and again, without a hint of warning or explanation. The name was always there, even more than the person attached to it.

 

The name changed, though. Not only was it hard and challenging, but it had of late become a sort of reminder of refuge, something that was his alone, private and selfish. In the months since Raphael had left, however, it had changed again, morphed into reminder of an emptiness he’d done his damnedest to ignore.

 

And there it was again.

 

Raphael.

 

But, as he finally moved in the eerie silence that had him frowning at thin air, he faintly heard the muffle of Raphael’s voice.

 

Panicking, he turned left and right, left towards the living room, right towards the stairs. Back and forth, again and again.

 

After two full minutes of paralyzed indecision, he quietly padded over out of the kitchen and into the hallway, halting in front of the door of the living room. Frozen like a statue, shaken and crumbled to the core, he was about to walk in and, oh god, maybe just _run to him_ , when—

 

‘He’s not ready,’ he heard Raphael say, sounding exhausted and sluggish. ‘The problem isn’t finding a partner, especially not in our case, but it’s staying with them through time.’ The next words were muffled. ‘I mean, he found me— no, I guess I found him first, but … he’s not ready for it.’

 

It hit Simon, still frozen, but now horrified, that it was the truth he hadn’t been able to put into words. All those terribly selfish decisions, stubborn as a mule and refusing to speak, it all boiled down to one simple fact: he wasn’t ready. This seemed so stupid to him. So stupid. How was that good enough?

 

‘One way or another, he’ll end up back here, I suppose. Fate’s … predictable that way. But until then,’ Raphael paused and Lily, who was in there with him, again – Simon ignored the burst of jealousy – made an inquiring noise. ‘I need him to choose.’ Another long pause. ‘Either he stays away and cools off for a while, or, or, or he’s with me.’

 

Raphael then  _mmh_ ’ed loudly and sighed.

 

Simon rushed back to his room with as much stealth as he could muster. He grabbed a glass of water on the way up.

 

Once the door was firmly closed, he threw open his closet with a frantic swing, pushing aside the strangling weight clamped around his chest, and dug around in an old bag he’d snatched from his mother’s house. He rummaged around until he found the withered leather bag with medical supplies.

 

Taking out two tablets, he crushed them quickly in his palm, emptied his hands into the glass and downed the water in one gulp.

 

He fell asleep within minutes.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

‘Feliz cumpleaños. Happy one-year anniversary of your new life.’

 

Simon blinked awake slowly, groaning. He grappled instinctively for his glasses on the nightstand, knocking over the glass of water to the floor, sending it shattering into a million little shards.

 

In the darkness of his bedroom, private, small and messy, a candle cast flickering shadows around the room.

 

‘Well. Nice reflexes.’ Raphael walked over, crushing the glass into the softening wooden floors. He put down the cupcake on the nightstand. ‘I’m glad to see nothing’s changed.’ He sounded strangely at ease.

 

Simon had no retort to give. Something stirred inside him, stretching and unfurling itself like a great beast, easily triumphing over his groggy state. Punch-drunk and reeling. His mind was still asleep, but he gave in to the by now all too familiar urge to chase after what was right in front of him. Raphael. Again and again.

 

He grabbed Raphael’s wrist, yanked with force and sank into the mattress, pushed down by the weight of a strangely soft and warm body. Finally.

 

A responsive body. A body that moved all too willingly, unafraid and searching, void of the usual streak of apathy Simon was used to. Here was someone holding his gaze for an awkward, suspended eternity, searching for an explanation, kissing him with perfunctory pauses to breathe unnecessarily and then cutting off his air supply, playing a game and enjoying it. This body woke up his, and suddenly it’s Raphael, and all of a sudden it’s home.

 

It’s a small, little secret, what they share, and no one else knows them as they are. Raphael whispers, an echo of something that would be recognized with a clear head, i _n your eyes, I see I feel it all,_ but it’s much too much and Simon shrinks away against the unfurling beast, embarrassed, and then again, _in my mind I try to let go, but it’s so hard - you’re all I know,_ and then Raphael eases whatever hesitance he reads on Simon’s face, and hits bull’s eye.

 

Waves crash against the shore with every tightened grip around his waist and neck, yes, you did this to me, the wind shrieks viciously in his ears when he tries to listen to the waterfall of words bubbling out of Raphael’s mouth, but he can only think, _yes, yes_ , Raphael whisper his name, and again, and again, I am that I am, oh, every light bulb hanging in the hallway rattles and explodes with a shrill crack, _oh,_ Raphael, Raphael, Raphael, lips bloom a deep, vibrant, bleeding _red_ , yes, and he stares at them, parted and closed, traces and bites and dances around them again and again, staring into Raphael’s eyes until he flows over, yes, I will, it’s clear now, and blood pumps life, sweet, rousing, life into his dead veins as he plasters his body against Raphael, oh, hoping to sink into it as far as he is able, yes, yes, yes

 

Raphael is mumbling to him, murmuring and apologizing and accusing, all rounding up in a circle, coming back to where he started the first time he

 

The words never register, never reach beyond the fog. It is, in that instant, all he knows.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy, sailors!
> 
> The attempted lyricism on Raphael's part is actually Washed Out - All I know, an uplifting song and it couldn't be more radically different from this fic -which is why you should listen to it right now.
> 
> Thank you, a shower of roses and waves, for reading, kudossing, and commenting! 
> 
> [exit]


	6. White (Afterthought)

Granted, Simon argued as he rubbed at his heavy head, he shouldn’t have taken the pills the night before. Was it cheating if he used his leftover meds from a prescription dating years back, when he had gotten slightly concussed after banging his head against hard asphalt? He’d still been in high school at the time, and the doctor had prescribed the painkillers because Simon complained he couldn’t sleep from the throbbing in his skull.

 

Simon had never thrown them away. He probably should’ve. At least so that he wouldn’t abuse them like this. With a grimace he nodded against the pillow, as if in agreement with someone who wasn’t there and had spoken the words, ‘Simon, you fucking idiot.’

 

He glared against the harsh light peeking in past the thick curtains. A strip of light shone on the parquet. The pills should’ve kept him under for a few hours more, he reasoned, but it was still day outside.

 

Behind him, he heard Raphael stir. He became shock still and attempted to be as quiet as possible. Now wasn’t the time for a confrontation.

 

He tried to recall the events of the previous night, and gathered some details and vivid images with a faint gasp that brought back the thrilling shock of the night before. Oh– he _really_ had touched Raphael without any restraint or decency –and he really _had_ uttered those words, now fixed and irreversible –ugh, oh, god, he had spoken of twisted fate and karma –Simon felt bright red and mortified at being so greedy and eager with someone else.

 

But why?

 

Right when Simon contemplated whether or not jumping off a cliff was an appropriate response – damn it all to hell, something was wrong with him – Raphael sighed deeply and groused, ‘What now?’

 

‘Nothing!’

 

Raphael dug himself into his cushion and _mmh’_ ed. Their sheets – _his_ sheets, Simon corrected – were soft and matched the dark, sombre walls of the room. Green.

 

Simon wondered who had lived in this room before him and if they had seen colours, too. From the looks of it, they had. The room was shockingly well-decorated and followed a distinct colour scheme. A dark and maudlin one, but one nonetheless.

 

To take his mind off last night’s bleary yet admittedly –and he was scared to admit it – honest declarations towards Raphael, Simon started babbling.

 

‘I’m thinking of painting the room.’

 

‘Hum?’

 

‘The room. The walls. They’re so dark. I mean I know I’m a vampire, but why give in to stereotype if you can help it? Not everything has to be so murdery and gloomy and _vampiry_ in this hotel, right?’

 

‘Right.’

 

‘Like, it’s so morbid, don’t you think? It’s bad enough we can’t go out in the sun, but we’re literally blocking out all light! Lightness. Brightness. It’s just all so dull and c-,’ he hesitated and almost turned away to face the wall instead of Raphael. ‘Colourless. Too much grey here.’

 

Raphael blinked an eye open and raised his brows. He cleared his raspy voice and said, ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you’ve even remotely acknowledged what it happening.’

 

Gathering his courage, and with a clear head for once, Simon replied, ‘Well. Maybe it was overdue.’

 

Raphael took pity on him, miraculously, and sat up in the bed against the headboard. After a moment’s thought, he bent over and took his jacket from the floor. He took out a small glass figure and set it on the mattress.

 

‘What’s that?’ asked Simon.

 

‘It’s a prism.’

 

Simon held back from shoving him and griped, ‘I know it’s a prism, Sherlock. What are you doing walking around with a prism in your breast pocket for?’

 

Raphael didn’t answer at first and glared at the prism as if it would speak for them.

 

Eventually he said, ‘I brought it back with me.’

 

Simon tried to ignore the hurt when he remembered Raphael had basically disappeared for almost a month after they’d fought.

 

‘From Amsterdam,’ Raphael offered. ‘That’s where I’ve been.’

 

‘What on earth were you doing there? Did you enjoy their lax drug laws?’

 

Raphael rolled his eyes. ‘No, of course not. I just visited some old acquaintances.’

 

‘And you bought a prism.’

 

‘And I bought a prism.’

 

Raphael stepped out of bed and waited for Simon to get up as well with an impatient wave of the hand. He wore his boxer briefs and had pulled on a shirt.

 

Simon, however, was still stark naked, and he dressed quickly.

 

When he was done, Raphael took his arm and led him to one of the windows. He pushed Simon behind his back and pulled on the curtain to let in a small ray of light.

 

Simon had never read or heard about this. He had no idea what happened when you put a prism in front of a light beam. He didn’t know how it refracted light. How the light shone on the triangle and dispersed, went through and came out, created wave lengths of light and —

 

‘Oh, my god.’

 

Simon was speechless. This was the first time in his life he’d ever seen something like this.

 

Raphael explained, ‘It breaks the light. Each colour is a frequency, which is why they bend at different angles. White light contains the whole spectrum. Beyond that,’ he gestured to the upper red ray, ‘is infrared, which we can’t perceive with the naked eye, and,’ he gestured to the blue ray, ‘ultraviolet.’

 

Simon gripped Raphael’s arm but didn’t take his eyes off the prism.

 

‘And apparently,’ he continued, ‘you can find it in nature as well. It’s called a rainbow. When it rains and there’s sunshine, it produces the same effect, or something similar to it. There’s an enormous band of colours in the sky, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other.’

 

Simon was almost sure he had never heard Raphael speak this much. Who knew he was interested in optics?

 

Simon leaned forward into Raphael’s shoulder. He put his hand forward and moved his index finger along the coloured ray of light, his skin smoking only slightly. Raphael smacked his hand away harshly. ‘ _Idiota_. Stop that.’

 

Simon didn’t react to it. Instead he repeated wondrously, ‘A rainbow.’ Then he snorted. Human language was predictable at times, utterly confusing at other times. ‘A bow of colour in the rain.’

 

Raphael _mmh_ ed again and said, ‘According to an old legend one can find a pot of gold at the beginning and the end of the rainbow. The Irish believe the gold is guarded by a leprechaun. But it’s a myth, because the light moves along with the observer.’

 

The gesture proved much heavier than a few simple scientific factoids or folklore mentions.

 

Simon’s voice cracked when he said, ‘Thank you’, and he grew embarrassed again.

 

Raphael drew back the prism and pressed it into Simon’s hands. He turned around and walked to the en-suite bathroom.

 

Simon was left adrift.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mh? What? Huh, hum?

**Author's Note:**

> Ahoy, readers!
> 
> I don't really know what the hell this is supposed to be, so it's alright if you don't either.
> 
> Leave me a meep if you're alive and kicking.


End file.
